


Dream Turned Nightmare

by sourtongue



Category: Welcome to Hell - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Death, Animal Death, Character Death, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourtongue/pseuds/sourtongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His greatest accomplishment turns out to be nothing but a dream and he wakes up to a real nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream Turned Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Hello! Salutations!  
> This is the first work I've ever posted on this website and for this fandom.  
> I'm incredibly self-conscious when it comes to posting anything online but I hope this one is a decent read!  
> Enjoy!!

One knee is pressed into soft soil, damp earth cold against the fabric of rolled jeans; a scuffed boot tip is digging into drying mud. 

Fingers tighten around a familiar handle, a comforting object, an old friend. The thin branches of the bushes poke and prod into his arms, scratch at his rosy cheeks and scrape against the sides of thick goggles that protect nuclear green orbs. 

From where he hides, crouching in a berry bush like a famished predator, his eyes stay locked onto the doe that feeds in the small clearing; it's back faces him. That's his prey.

A cardinal flutters through the trees to his left, chirping, beating it's little wings as it hops from branch to branch. He's killed plenty of those before, plucked the tiny heart straight from the avian rib cage and held it delicately in his hand as it took it's last beats. He still has the feather collection somewhere; and he wants to look, just to peek but if he as so much glances away from the doe, she might magically vanish and this is the closest he's ever been to killing one. 

**Stay focused, Sock.  
Stay. Focused.**

He pushes the cardinal from his mind, tunes out it's bird song from his ears and remains transfixed on the white speckled thigh that's in his sight. 

He's been dreaming of this.  
The poor boy. 

The second Monday morning of every month, he'd sneak out his bedroom window two hours before school, his old friend sharpened and tucked safely away into his vest pocket, waiting to be the cause of hot red splatters and bloodshed. 

He'd walk passed the stream, the rock pile of four he'd placed there as a marker when they first moved into the neighborhood and the tree with the star carved into it's trunk. And on the second Monday morning of every month, he'd find a doe. Sometimes the same one from last time, but most of the time not; and he'd wait and watch and itch with the need to take the plunge and drive the blade into it's throat but every time, the damned cardinal got his attention, took his focus, made him slip or rustle leaves and by the time his gaze shot back to the clearing, there would be no doe. No prey. No kill for Sock.

This time though. This time would be different. He knows that to be the truth, considering the way he didn't fall for the cardinals red plumage and whistling song. He knows this time, he'll succeed.

So he runs a fingertip down the length of the blade, silver slicing into thin skin until a miniscule line of blood forms. His lips crack upwards with a grin. 

The blade will have no problems slipping into speckled deer flesh. 

The doe and her beady eyes are at the ground, plucking stray berries from the grass one by one with her narrow snout. Ears rotate and flick in the direction of sounds but Sock knows none of the sounds are from him.

He'd pretty much mastered the art of silent hunting. That's how the predators did it.

Well, it was either that or camouflage and there was no way in Hell, Sock could camouflage anywhere with the rainbow of attire he currently wore.

 _‘Right.’_  
He thinks to himself. 

_‘This should be easy because she's eating slow and because she isn't facing me but also because the blade is sharpened so it shouldn't take too long to get this done._

He thinks it should be easy. He's almost positive it should be easy.  
Easy as key lime pie.

It should be easy but his thought pattern changes when a mosquito sticks it’s mandibles into the side of his neck and leaves him with a stinging, burning itch. 

"You've got to be kidding me.." 

He hisses the muttered whisper amongst himself and his old friend, trying hard not to bring fingertips up to scratch at the swelling bite but his will is broken and he reaches his empty hand up, eyes still on the doe, and is almost within itching distance until his wrist brushes a thick mess of leaves and bush branches and the sound is loud, sudden, and the doe freezes as her head shoots up and her beady eyes, seemingly black and endless, stare in Sock's direction.

And he knows then, that he's been spotted. 

She sprints from the clearing and he charges after her, adrenaline pumping through his body and propelling him closely behind her and..

Wow he didn't know he could run this fast.

It is rather strange how he's able to keep pace with the doe but he doesn't question his new agility and keeps up with her effortlessly, hardly out of breath, knife in hand and ready.. 

Ready..

He doesn't see anything he can attempt a jump off from so he runs until he's by her thigh and without a second thought or hesitation, his arm extends out, lightning fast and he sends the blade diving into the speckled flesh that's pulled right over the thigh muscle.

The doe falls to the ground immediately. 

His attack slows his running speed dramatically, causing him to stumble; and the blade that's still embedded tears a large gash into the animal and he thinks he's done it.

While it's writhing on the forest floor, struggling to get to it's hooves again, he thinks he's done it.

While he puts his body weight onto the doe's ribcage and removes the blade from the thigh, and slices at the fur of her throat, he thinks he's done it.

But it is crying and yelling and not at all making the noise a dying doe should be making. Hell, he's never heard a dying doe cry before but he knows for a fact that it should not sound like...

..His **mother?**

He takes the pressure off of the neck, blood already spilling out in fast spurts as he pulls his goggles up from his face, a spray or two painting the side of his cheek.

The screaming sounds like fluid in the lungs. A wet gurgling that would form bloody bubbles and cause them to build up from the mouth and spill outward.

The doe is still screaming, shrieking and he tries to put his hand over it's mouth to muffle it and that's when it hits him.

How did he even get here in the first place? He doesn't remember waking up in bed, two hours before school and sneaking out his bedroom window. He doesn't remember passing the stream or his rock pile or the star carved into the tree wood. He only recalls being by the bushes, crouching. 

Something isn't the right.  
The human screaming coming from the doe's mouth.  
Not being able to remember how he got here.

And suddenly, the doe looks at him, beady eyes now green, like his, and pleading, full of tears.

The mouth moves;

"N..Napoleon... How could you do this...?"

And he looks back at the doe who is now his mother, and the forest floor that is now thick shag carpet stained crimson, and the blood that spills from her mouth.

There's a thick gash in her throat and the large wound that was sliced into the doe's thigh is now just an open, pulsing pulpy mess at his mother's stomach.

"I-I.."

Immediately, the blade falls from shaking hands and he stands to back away, knowing he can't do anything to salvage the situation nor to save his mother's life.

"You sick bastard!"

His father is at him in an instant, having charged from the bedside and tackled his only son to the floor and now, Sock is the prey and his father, the predator. The mans hands are wrapping around the boys thin throat, immediately finding it difficult to breathe and circulate enough air into his panicking lungs and he doesn't want to die and it is such a selfish act of self defense but his old friend comes to the rescue and buries itself in the left side of his father's chest repeatedly until he falls off of Sock and onto his side with a still thud of dead weight; his mother having passed quite quickly no to mention painfully during the brawl between father and son.

And Sock, one minute a love child and the next an orphan; scrambles back from the scene until his spine presses hard into the wall.

Even though are no hands at his throat now but he's having trouble catching his breath and all the air that he's missing out on is inhaled in one sharp breath after he chokes out a broken sob, bloodied hands moving to cover his face; desperately, desperately wishing for this nightmare to be just another dream. A dream within a dream and that he'll wake up and still be in his bed and he'll still have parents but when he closes his eyes and opens them again, nothing has changed and he realizes that this is his reality now.


End file.
